The Lost
by Jason Layton
Summary: AU, NOT SLASH, John is an amnesiac who has been abandoned by society and left to live off the streets, enter a young foolish but genius addict named Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: The Lost**  
><strong>Rating: PG-13<strong>

**Warning: Amnesia, and Drug use.**  
><strong>Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, and I do not make any money from this fanwork.<strong>  
><strong>Summary: AU, NOT SLASH, John is an amnesiac who has been abandoned by society and left to live of the streets, enter a young foolish but genius addict named Sherlock Holmes. When John saves Sherlock from an angry dealer, he is unwittingly plunged into the madman's world.<strong>

_I can't believe we are the only people here, the weather is, well it'd not perfect but its fine. Just a slight chill to the wind, but what do you expect from November? I can see the heavy swell from the top of the cliff, and as we walk down the long winding concrete path, I know today is going to be great. Holly is giggling and grinning from ear to ear as we carry our boards down to the sea, this is the first time we've had the chance to surf since I went to Afghanistan. My wetsuit under my clothes is uncomfortably tight, and I wonder briefly if I should have waited, gone and bought a suit better fitted to my larger war bought muscles. No I think I wanted to be out in that surf, I wanted to be with Holly again, who cares if it's a little tight, as soon as I'm in the water it will be as if I'm bare, free as the fish._

_As we reach the bottom of the cliff, I spot we're not alone, an orange split bay VW Camper is parked at the bottom of the cliff road. Clearly tourists, no one from here brings a vehicle down, the odd coastguard or RNLI Landrover, and maybe a whelk tractor, but the hippy bus is a no no. The tide comes in so quickly it's easy to get stuck. I smile and think back to my first day here. On a break from Bart's, Holly offered to take a group of us to her folk's house. She said she'd teach us to surf, and we didn't believe her. Surfing was done in California wasn't it? Surely not North Wales? I had been so wrong, the beauty of the Llyn coast, and the surfing around this headland, the devils arse, had seeped into my very soul._

_Holly waves at the couple disembarking from the van, and hurry's down towards them, leaving me in her wake. When I get there, she's talking excitedly to them. The man is older than us, he must be mid-40's, but lean and fit. His hair just greying his cut short just above his ears, and his tanned skin is almost red in the early morning chill. His companion is much younger, I think younger than Holly and I, maybe mid-20's, but she is holding his hand like a lover. Her long chestnut hair clashes with the bright yellow wetsuit she's wearing. Their boards are well used, but carefully maintained and a curious glance into their bus shows the casual habits of a regular surfer._

_Holly is stripping her clothes off; she has never had any sense of embarrassment, revealing her orange wetsuit. She laughs as I stare at her, her wetsuit is loose on her, and she laughs that without my encouragement she's not been working out like before. I tease her that I'll change that, and we chase each other off the path and down to the sea. Laughing like children, we abandon our coats and clothes and bags on the sand, and wait for the other couple to follow us down. They've never surfed here before, and are glad of Holly's expert advice regarding the rocks and swell._

_For a moment the four of us stand in the early morning light listening to the crashing waves, and staring out of the walls of water. The chill breeze tugs at our cheeks and hair, and I can't help but shiver. Then suddenly the girls, instant best friends, plunge forward into the surf, their heads plunging under the crashing waves, as they push themselves and their boards forward. I hesitate for a moment, smiling at Holly's shrill of delight, before looking at my new companion and running forward myself. For an instant I am transported into a different world where politics and medicine and war mean nothing, before the swell hits me and I start paddling madly._

I wake up as I always do covered in sweat and filth. For a moment I look around the dirty room, stunned and then the smell and horror of where I am comes back to me. I lose the dream entirely unable to remember names or places or even the basis of the dream. Just that I was dreaming of happiness and cleanliness and then the doors of my mind close down again. I stretch and move my heavy blanket off me. The others in the room burp and snore in their sleep, but I am awake. It is early in the morning so I will move on.

For nearly two years I've lived on the streets, making what money I can, and sleeping in the cleanest places I can find. I have two sets of clothes, the set I am wearing and the set I will put on, carefully taking off this outfit and using the last of yesterdays acquired money to clean it at the nearest laundry. They others call me Doc, I am as fastidious as I can be about being clean, washing as fully as possible every day in public restrooms, cleaning my clothes as often as possible, and so when they are sick they come to me, and I do what I can. They call me Doc, because I can't tell them my name, they laugh at me telling me I should be a Doctor, or a medic, and sometimes I think I should be a soldier, so willing to fight to protect my 'patients'. The truth is though I maybe, I maybe any one of those things, I may have a name a home a family, but I don't know. In truth I don't know anything. My earliest memory is two years old; the only life I can remember is this. So I shuffle on, carefully collecting my few poor belongings, and leaning heavily on my cane, walk into the early morning light, the sound of rushing water and screaming receding into my battered memories.

**Yeah I know I've started another non-connected AU fic, whilst working on ALL the others, sorry.**

**Jason xx  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

It must be quite late in the evening but I am almost entirely unaware, I have spent the day walking around the city. I briefly called into the squat in Jermyn Street, where Tanya and her baby are currently living. I can do little to convince her to get the little mite into the system, she herself a prostitute and illegal immigrant knows that if she were to try and get her child, Allegra, registered the child would probably be taken from her. Besides as she tells me, what could the NHS do for her and the baby that I couldn't? She offers me food and cash, which I gladly accept, ensuring that she and Allegra have what they need before I leave.

My strange rounds are always like this, I visit the old and the sick and the dying, those who need help or company, and they in return ensure I have food and some money in my pocket. It is not a living, not a real living I am aware, but free food, and some clothing keep me healthy, a couple of quid for booze or a cup of tea in the all night café, dulls the senses somewhat. I can keep myself clean and fed, and what else does anyone need. I sometimes look at my reflection and wonder, someone must know who I am, where I came from, and imagine I must belong somewhere else. Sometimes when one of my 'patients' is sick, and I seem to know exactly how to care for them, I imagine that maybe I am a real Doctor, and have a life somewhere else. Then I see a 14 year old rent boy, bleeding to death in a back alley, his pupils blown with amphetamine abuse, and I think maybe this is what my real purpose is.

Exhausted I sit on my rucksack and watch the emptying street for a while. My eyes are starting to close, and I think I must find some shelter for the night; it is fatal to sleep out on these streets all night. I am about to get up, when the man tumbles out of the side street, he looks behind him, and grabbing his stomach stumbles across the road towards me. I don't recognise him, but that's no matter he's heading for me and he's hurt. I stand up and reach my arms out to him, he looks up into my face, and I see a handsome but drawn face of a young man, his pupils are blown white, and his lips are drawn a cyanotic. He's an addict, but his clothes although dirty are expensive and well cared for, a recent runaway then. His cheeks are black and bruised, and he's wheezing the physician's eye roams over him; someone has given him a good kicking.

As I support this young man, I hear shouting from the alleyway opposite; whoever attacked this man is coming for him. I roughly push him down onto my rucksack, and stand in front of him. There are few who will threaten me, I fear little on these streets. The three young men, come running and stumbling forwards, one has a bloody nose, one has a black eye, and I briefly gaze at the shuddering youth behind me, he clearly gave as good as he got. As they run towards me, I step forward, setting my jaw against them.

"Alright lads, give it a rest" I shout

"Leave it out Doc, the posh-o is ours"

"Not tonight, lads, he's had enough leave him be"

"Get out the way Doc, this is nothing to do with you" The tallest lad comes up to me, several inches taller than me, he towers above me threatening. His name is Dall, he's a dealer and a murderer, but he doesn't scare me.

"No Dall, piss off" I say, he swings towards me and I kick him in the nuts, he goes down quickly and as his head pitches forward I punch him hard behind the ear, knocking him unconscious. I look into the eyes of his friends, and they quietly back off. "Take him away boys; put him to bed, he'll be fine in the morning".

As the lads drag away their fallen leader in silence, I turn towards the addict.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asks.

"Huh?"

"You've seen active service, fairly recently, was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I don't know?" I answer honestly, kneeling in front of him and looking him over. "Come on" I say dragging him to his feet.

"Where are we going?"

"All night café, I need to see you in the light."


	3. Chapter 3

As we stumbled into the café, I looked up at Mario behind the counter, and smiled

"Alright Doc? Got another patient?" he asked in his broad east London accent.

"Yeah sorry about this mate, but this guys had a run in with Dall's gang and I want to have a look in the light"

"S'right, I'll get you a cuppa, on the house"

I was shocked as the young man lurched out of my grasp and manoeuvred himself into a chair, directly below an electric spot light. It's the chair I normally try and get my patients on, the brightest in the room, and I thanked the powers that be for the man's lucky fall.

"It wasn't luck, Doctor" The man suddenly slurred

"Pardon?"

"I didn't choose this seat by luck, I chose it by design, and it's clearly the chair you would have chosen"

I cursed, I hadn't realised I had spoken out-loud. That's a terrible sign, we you start vocalising your thoughts you are losing your boundaries and descending into madness.

"You didn't say anything out-loud" the strange man continued "You needn't worry about your sanity, I just observed" he shrugged at my open mouth "You know this place and come here often, you'd clearly need a chair with as much light as possible, this chair is the brightest in the room, also you looked towards it as you walked through the door"

"Brilliant"

"You did say that out-loud however"

"Sorry"

"Don't be" he smiled.

I carefully pulled open his coat and ran a gentle hand over his abdomen and chest. Gently opening his buttons shirt I saw the livid black bruises, and sat back on my heels.

"You've broken a couple of ribs, but I think you got off fairly lightly" I told him "The bruising isn't particularly bad, and other than the black eye and the ribs, you're lucky"

"Thank you Doctor"

"That's what I do" I said and climbing to my feet smiled at him

"I also meant for saving my life, the man, Dall was it? He would have killed me." He said smiling broadly; I assessed him wondering if he was running mad.

"I'd have done it for anyone"

"Well thank you anyway"

Mario came over and put two cups of tea on the table, I smiled and thanked him, but as he turned away the strange man dug in his pocket and pulled out a screwed up note.

"Mario?" he asked

"Yes?" Mario asked

"This is for the tea, and if possible could you get a couple of bacon sandwiches and a bowl of chips for my Doctor?" He handed him the £20 note, and Mario looked at me for confirmation. I shrugged non-commitally and Mario hurried off.

"Thank you" I stammered "that's very kind"

"In a few minutes Doctor, my brother will step through that door, he will bundle me into a car and drive me off to the country where he will imprison me until he thinks I'm clean" the man started, "would you come with me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not a great companion, I play the violin at all ours, I don't eat or sleep, sometimes I don't talk for days, would that bother you?"

"I'm not following you"

"I am going to need a doctor for my withdrawal, you are clearly in need of a home and a job, and I'm offering you employment"

"I'm sorry but we know nothing about each other, I don't know where we are going, who you are, I don't even know your name"

"I know you're an army Doctor back from Afghanistan, I know you've been living rough for about 2 years, I know you have a strong sense of morality, and are worried about your future on the streets. I know you have amnesia and a history of alcohol abuse. That seems enough to be going on with doesn't it?"

I sat there with my mouth open for a moment vaguely aware of a large black limousine pulling up outside, and the door opened and a group of heavies walked in. As they came across to our table, and placed one hand either side of my companion's chair, he turned and winked at me.

"Oh and the names Sherlock Holmes, and these men are in my brothers employ, coming?"


	4. Chapter 4

After half an hour bundled in the back of the Limousine, with me hugging my battered rucksack and Sherlock glaring at the blacked out window, he began to speak.

"OK you have questions"

"Who are you?"

"Nobody, my brother however is the British Government"

"What?"

"My brother, my much older brother" he added with a smirk, "Runs the British government, oh and the secret service, and the CIA on a freelance basis"

I looked at him as if he was mad, but his pupils were returning to normal, and he was smiling at me.

"Really?" I asked, but he just gestured at the Limousine.

"Where are we going" I asked

"My brothers country residence" he frowned suddenly "he has facilities to contain me."

I sat in silence for a moment, "How did you?"

"Know about you?" he asked, when I nodded he continue "I observed, your haircut and bearing say military, you're physicians eye says Doctor. You are clean and streetwise, and your hair is cut and clean. A newbie would be filthy, but you are still slightly tanned so I made a deduction about 2 years on the street. You're sense of morality is obvious from you going out of your way to protect me, and the reaction when you thought you were talking out loud shows you have concerns about your sanity. The next bit is easy you know it already."

I smiled "I don't know!"

"Exactly, you clearly said you didn't know if you'd been in Afghanistan or Iraq, Amnesia. Then there's the alcohol."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark, a good one though" he smiled "You are a clever man, educated and clean, you've clearly gone through some kind of massive event, probably military related, so you've been hospitalised. Someone like you, hospitalised with amnesia wouldn't have been let out on to the streets, probably sent to a halfway house. You've been forced to leave there for some reason, so alcohol abuse."

I sat there silently for a moment, and then whispered "Brilliant!"

"Really?" Sherlock asked

"Brilliant, amazing, extraordinary"

"That's not what people normally say"

"What do they normally say?"

"Piss off!"

About an hour later we pulled up outside a large manor house, and Sherlock held the door open for me. As we walked to towards the house flanked by the goons from earlier, he turned to me again.

"Did I miss anything?"

"I can't confirm a lot, but I was discharged from hospital just over 2 years ago, I am an Amnesiac, as far as I know I was some kind of army medic, and I used to be a drinker."

"Spot on then, didn't expect to be right about everything."

"The injury isn't military related." He stared at me "I was found unconscious and injured on a railway track in Shropshire."

"Really?" he looked shocked, then shrugged "There's always something"

"Sherlock what am I doing here?"

"I told you, being my Doctor"

All further conversation was halted when one of the goons grabbed Sherlock around the waist and the other grabbed me.

The world went black as a bag was put over my head, but the last thing I heard as I was dragged away was Sherlock shouting "DOCTOR" at the top of his voice.


	5. Chapter 5

It must have been several hours later that the bag was ripped from my head, I'd been dosing, but the sound of footfalls had woken me. I carefully kept my breathing shallow and steady, only reacting as I was plunged into light. I was surprised that my hands were free to move, but was still on edge. I was sat on a reclining chair in the middle of an empty room, a bag having only just been removed from my head, every nerve in body screamed danger.

As I squinted around the room a tall man walked out of the shadows, dressed in a posh 3-piece suit, carrying a black umbrella, he strolled towards me across the room.

"Mr Holmes the senior, I presume" I greeted him, struggling to stand up.

"Do sit down, Doctor" he drawled smiling, but I stood up anyway.

"What do you want from me?" I challenged

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I….I don't have one…I met him" I look at the natural light coming in from a light grid behind the man "yesterday"

"And since then you've saved his life and agreed to move in with him, should I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

I stared at him for a moment, "So you're going to let me see him again then?"

"Evidently" he stared at me for a moment, "You don't see very afraid?"

"You don't seem very frightening"

"Argh yes the bravery of the soldier, bravery is by far the kindest world for stupidity don't you think?"

"Are we done here?" I ask him stepping forward "It's just I'd like to check on my patient"

"Yes, of course" He rested his hand briefly on the bridge of his nose "If you are intending to continue your association with my brother I could provide you with a modest sum to ease your way"

"Why?"

"Because you are not a wealthy man, and my brother does seem rather found of you"

"We will live here?" I ask him hesitantly

"For the time being"

"You'll provide food and shelter?"

"Yes"

"Then I can't see why I would need anything else?"

"Nothing?" He asks me, coming close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne "I could find out who you are; I could spare resources to your mystery, would you like that?"

I close my eyes, of course I want that, who wouldn't want that, but my priority is Sherlock.

"The only thing I will ask you, is to let me care for your brother, for as long as he wants me to"

"Okay, if that's what you want" he pulled out a notepad from his jacket pocket "Your doctors called you John Smith?"

"Yes"

"Well Doctor Smith, welcome to mad world of Sherlock Holmes."


	6. Chapter 6

I was taken from the cellar through the house and up what I gathered was the service stairs to a large wing. There was a cold point on the stairs, where I could clearly see through a glass window cut into the stairwell a wide well carpeted corridor, with bright coloured wallpaper, behind a wide oak door. I went towards the door, but my guide a young woman with a bright chestnut main coughed and nodded in the opposite direction. At the top of the stairs, directly opposite the wooden stair is a metal door, I look at my guard but she just pushes past me at the top of the stairs. Taking a card out of her pocket she swiped it through a card reader on the side of the door, opening it inwards, she steps out of the way letting me past.

"What if I need to get out? What if there is an emergency?" I ask suddenly terrified

"The rooms all have CCTV, and there is a phone, if you need to leave we will probably see why, or you can phone for help." She starts to close the door, "If the fire alarms are triggered there is a fire escape which will be automatically unlocked, good day Dr Smith."

I stand looking at the locked door for a moment; an overpowering sense of claustrophobia gripped me. To my right there was another oval window, this time looking down onto a paved service yard. The room I was standing in smelt of damp it was full of old boxes and looked like a storage room. It must have been 30ft between me and the large casement window on the furthest side of the room facing the locked door. Along the right hand wall there were two wooden doors, but on the left hand side, the outside wall there was just one small thin slit window, which made me think of arrow slits. At the end of this wall at the outside corner there was a tiny wooden door.

The view from the casement window was amazing, looking over a large formal garden and out towards the surrounding countryside. I stood there for a moment letting the claustrophobia recedes, before turning towards the doors. I carefully opened the door closest to the locked door, pushing it open gently.

"Sherlock?" I called into the darkened room; I had the impression of walking into a velvet curtain. The deep purple and stifled heat of the room shocked me. As my eyes became adjusted to the dark, I caught sight of a real curtain to my right, and pulling it gently flooded the room with light. My patient groaned, and I sore him lying in the supine position over a dark leather sofa in the middle of the room. "What are you doing?" I asked him.

He looked up and fixed me with a stare, then smiled "Nothing, thinking"

I looked around the room taking in my surroundings, the wall furthest from the door I'd come in from contained a large Victorian fireplace which contained a roaring coal fire. That explained the heat, and I thought the slight sulphuric smell. As well as the sofa leaning against the opposing wall the room contained a battered wooden desk and two comfy looking armchairs. With the window to my back I stared at the horrendous wallpaper in the room, all dark swirls and muted colours. The wall opposite me opens into an archway showing a bright and well-appointed kitchen diner beyond. Obviously the destination of the second door in the room before. Either side of the fireplace are two further doors.

"I've just met your brother"

"Hmm, did he offer you money?"

"Yes" I laughed

"Did you take it?"

"NO!" I'm insulted

"Why ever not?" he sat up and stared at me

"Because as I told him, my first concern is you. If he's stupid enough to put me up and feed me for free who am I to complain, what else do I need money for?"

"What about when you leave here?"

"Do you want me to go now?"

"No, of course not, but you'll want to eventually"

"Why?"

"Everyone does eventually" he sighed "No one wants to spend much time with me"

I go and sit beside him, carefully taking his hand; I've seen this with other addicts. "Hey let me make that decision won't you? I'm not going anywhere until you tell me to leave"

He smiles "Thank you Doctor"

"John" I say automatically

"John?" he asks

"Yeah according to my medical records, John Smith."

He smirks, "Actually John suits you."

"I know."

* * *

><p><strong>Normally my descriptions are very precise or very vague, as they are either real places or entirely fictional. The "prison" wing in this chpt, is the house I lived in as a small child. It was an old Chateaux, and my brother and I used to play in this wing. However we left there when I was 11, and I find difficulty describing it, so halfway through I have inputted the basics of 221B. If it makes no sense let me know.<strong>

**In real life this wing was the oldest part of the house and always cold and smelling of damp, the door wasn't high tech but a metal studded door, which we used to pretend was a prison door.**

**J**


	7. Chapter 7

_Water is rushing over my head thumping against my face, I'm struggling for breath. For the first time in my life I'm panicking in the water, taking in massive lungful's of salty water. I'm dying and drowning and all I can do is try and fight the cold aquamarine that is smothering me. Somewhere in front of me some one is screaming and pleading. I fight harder trying to get to them, breaking through, desperate._

I wake up covered in sweat, fighting against the thick soft duvet I've managed to wrap entirely around me. For once the dream isn't receding if anything the scream is getting louder, more high pitched, I hear my own name and I suddenly I know I'm not dreaming. Sherlock is screaming for me.

I fling myself out of the ridiculous bed, it's massive and soft and delicately carved, for pities sake it has a canopy. I struggle against the pyjamas I'm wearing, for the first time in my memory I'm wearing pyjamas, and I realise how ridiculous I must look. I stumble but Sherlock's pleading spurs me on. My patient needs me, and I would crawl through a million times worse than a pair of silk pyjamas and a thick duvet to get him.

I try the door of his bedroom, decided by a toss of a coin earlier in the evening, and am relieved when it opens widely. He's lying in the centre of his bed, naked and covered in sweat. His limbs are stretched and rigid, and his eyes are wide. However I can see, and hear he's asleep racked by nightmares of his own, probably withdrawal induced, but whatever it is, his veins are raised, his heart racing dangerously and I need to wake him up.

"Sherlock?" I call sharply, "Sherlock, wake up" He doesn't respond, still screaming and sobbing, so I climb onto the bed beside him and grab his thrashing wrists. He screams become roars a wracking sobs, but the sound dies down. "Sherlock, it's John, can you hear me?" His eyes close slightly, and his eyelashes flutter, the nightmare is receding. "Sherlock it's just a nightmare, you're safe I'm here" He locks me with a glare I can't believe, seconds ago this man was drowning in a withdrawal induced nightmare, but now he is fixing me with a crystal clear gaze.

"Don't think for a second we are safe here, John" he breathed, his voiced edged with fear and screaming. "We are prisoners here, prisoners of the most dangerous man you'll ever meet, we are certainly not safe."

"You are always safe with me, I won't let anyone, even your brother harm you, I promise." I wipe his forehead with the handkerchief from my pyjama pocket, and picking up the lost duvet to wrap around him.

"You seem sure of yourself, John. For a man who can't remember who he is, you seem sure of your constancy." He was drawling, whether from sleep or his damaged body rebelling I wasn't sure, but I gently settled him back into his pillows.

"When you have nothing else, you start to rely on yourself." I tell him as quietly as I can. "I'm going to get you a glass of water, I won't be a moment." His eyes snap open with fear again, but he nods and settles back down.

As I walk to the kitchen through the darkened living room, I think about this strange child man. He is clearly terrified, and whether through the paranoia of an addict, or some deeper reason I have no way of knowing. As I wait for the water to cool, I try and clasp my own nightmare in my memory, I know there is water, there is often water but something else, cold and pain. When I was in hospital they told me to try and remember my dreams, they were the key to my locked memories, but I never seem to be able to grasp them fully. Just when I get somewhere they slip from me again.

When I walk back to Sherlock's room, he is peaceful and snoring lightly in his sleep. Putting the glass on his nightstand, I think of my own new bed, and wonder about returning. My eyes however fix of the chaise-longue at the end of Sherlock's bed, the beds counterpane, lying carelessly on top of it. I'm a vagrant, this makes a bed a thousand times more comfortable than I'm used to, and I think I would be much closer in Sherlock needs me. Lying down gingerly I stretch my legs out, using the cushion as a pillow. I pull the counterpane over me and in seconds I fall into a deep dreamless sleep.

_Just as I close my eyes, I think I here hundreds of miles away, surrounded by surf and death a quiet voice screaming my name._


	8. Chapter 8

Several days later I am sitting staring at the prison door, I've been forced to sedate Sherlock, due to some rather appalling withdrawal symptoms, and I need some time away from my patient. Sat on an upturned box, encased in a massive biscuit coloured jumper, I watch the door suspiciously. Quite often the first time I notice this door has opened is when I receive a phone call telling me that a delivery has been made.

I think I'm going mad locked in with a moody complicated and terminally bored addict. Looking out of the window behind me I see sheep and open fields and I think how fresh and green everything is, compared to the purple stifling hell. Then my mind wanders to the dark cold streets, where I was cold and hungry and I feel briefly ashamed. Here I am warm and possibly the safest man in the country, with clean warm dry and very nice clothes.

Suddenly the door unlocks, and a large female figure struggles with the door, I automatically go to help, but stops as she swings round.

"Are you trying to escape Dr Smith?"

"No no" I stutter "erm er I God no sorry, you were struggling"

She fixes me with a dazzling smile, she must be about 20, but she is very well built. Her auburn hair is slightly curled, and she has a bright open face. Her dark blue eyes fix me, and seem to look straight though me. She is wearing a bright lilac jumper and as she starts to giggle her breasts bounce under the jumper. I find myself smiling despite myself, everything about her is beautiful. She passes me a large cardboard box and slams the metal door behind her, facing me.

"I'm glad you're here Dr Smith" she smiled again "you can give me a help with this lot"

She gestured that I should put the box down on the pile, and gave an exasperated huff when the boxes shifted.

"I'm sorry" I say "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, you know me.."

"….but you don't know who I am?"

I nod and she beams, holding out a podgy hand to me.

"I'm Enola Holmes, Mycroft and Sherlock's little sister."

* * *

><p>Enola is not an OC but a non-canonical character who features in a series of books by Nancy Springer. I needed a Mrs Hudson Character early on, who couldn't be Mrs Hudson, so I have borrowed her, although I have obviously aged her and oh well as she won't read this, she's my littlest sister in description.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

I discover over the next few days that Enola is the real mistress of this house, Sherlock and Mycroft had both left home seemingly for good when their mother had left leaving her mistress of the whole estate. However it was important for Mycroft to have a country estate to fall back on, and he had appropriate the house for his own uses. Enola had moved back in order to stop him removing all traces of their mother from the house, and now acted as chatelaine.

The boxes she kept bringing to our prison contained Sherlock's various belongings, from both his childhood and apparently his flat in Montague place. Mycroft had insisted most of his belongings be destroyed but Enola felt that this should be Sherlock's decision when strong enough, and enlisted my help in removing any traces of narcotics from these boxes, and then storing them ready for her brothers return to health.

In these few short days, I have come to like Enola, as frighteningly sharp as her brothers, she has a warmth that is so far lacking in my dealing with her brothers, she is also genuinely concerned about Sherlock. A feeling that I share. Cold Turkey Acute Withdrawal symptoms can take anything from a day to a month of agitated, cold sweats, screaming nightmares and body cramps. Sherlock's have been going on for 10 days with no signs of lessening. Admittedly I keep sedating him, which seems to be slowing the process, but after day three where he tore his fingers bloody literally climbing the walls. I think that's a necessary precaution.

Sedated he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes wide but his breathing and heart rate slow and calm. When he sleeps properly which is rare, he moans and writhes and I wonder what horrors he is reliving. I asked Enola what Sherlock actually did, and she told me he was an MSC in Chemistry with a fascination for crime. Apparently he would go and stand by crime scenes and just know who had committed the crime and why. Enola calls it deductive reasoning, and says it's genetic. A fact I highly doubt. She tells me that both she and Mycroft can do it as well, but it is a skill that needs regular honing and practice.

Enola suggested that maybe I should take some of her simpler cases to Sherlock, she herself takes on a number of Private Investigations, and seemingly with too many for one person, who also had a massive estate to manage, she would be happy for another Holmesian eye. So here I am sitting on the end of Sherlock's bed, trying not to fuss over my heavily sweating and occasionally retching patient, while his eyes roam over police reports and crime scene photos from a rather gruesome burglary. I am not squeamish, nothing would normally make by stomach turn, but the pictures of an empty living room, devoid of television furniture, pictures or ornaments, containing just an eviscerated giraffe, is giving me a distinctly green hue.

"Novel!" my patient exclaims, flicking through the crime scene photos

"Novel?" I query

"Well yes, a giraffe" he throws me the head shot again, "look at that, I mean the case is childishly obvious, but I don't think I'll ever come across another giraffe bomb, used to such good effect"

Suddenly he, grabs a pen from his side table, and scribbles a hasty note.

"Ensure my sister gets this" he says thrusting it into my hand "and tell her I'd appreciate something slightly harder next time"

I notice as I take my note and accept the subtle dismissal that some colour is returning to his cheeks, and there is a glow to his usually dull eyes. Maybe this is what he needs to bring him out of his withdrawal, I think, maybe we have really turned a corner.

As I close his bedroom door, and walk across the living room I look at the note, smiling and then realise I have no idea how he has come to this conclusion.

_If the brother has a yellow ladder, arrest the brother_

"Brilliant" I breathe.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm sat reading the paper while Sherlock is ranting at the world, standing by the fireplace, shouting at the stupidity of everyone.

The room is an utter mess, plates and tea cups litter the room, the general detritus of two men sharing a small space, seems to be highlighted by the light streaming through the windows.

I glance outside, wishing not for the first time, I could just step outside, feel that sun on my skin, step into the wide open gardens, feel the grass and wind. I'm grateful for my place here, a warm soft bed, food, shelter, and Sherlock whom I now think of as a friend. I have lived here now for months, Sherlock is over the worse of his withdrawal, with a regular caseload from Enola, and he is kept just at the edge of his destructive boredom. He has even found interest in going through his collected belongings, unpacking the oddest collection of personal belongings.

Who am I to complain a man with nothing, but a skull, a silk Persian slipper, a gem heeled dagger, and a harpoon seem a little odd to me. The afternoon he unpacked that particular box however was the first time I saw him genuinely happy, beaming smile, and a twirling dance with his skull. While Enola and I just stood by the doorway and watched.

Suddenly Sherlock stops ranting, his head coked and his ears as always pricked and listening for something. He runs to the window that overlooks the courtyard.

"John" he hisses "come and look at this."

I walk over and see Enola and Mycroft arguing in the courtyard. "They're arguing"

"How wonderfully observed" Sherlock replies dryly, "but why?"

I look again and see Mycroft shaking his head, while Enola waves a black file under his nose.

"Police report" Sherlock tells me, answering the question on my lips, "a case she can't crack."

"I didn't know she had one, not since the flaming barge case?" I ask

"She's been working on one for a while; obviously she's reached a point where she needs some extra help."

"From Mycroft?" I ask

"No, that's not why their arguing" he laughs, then leaves the window and dances about "They want me"

"What?" I ask thinking of the piles of finished cases that are scattered around our room.

"Enola is asking Mycroft to release us, to go on this investigation." He tells me, with a childlike glee.

"Really?" I can't believe it, the chance to go outside "do they think we're going to run away?"

"Possibly, it's rather likely after all"

"Don't"

"Don't what"

"If they let us go, don't do anything stupid."

"John if I have the chance to leave this hole, I will not do anything to jeopardise that, I have no intention on being dragged back by Mycroft."

"Good"

"But John?"

"Sherlock?"

"A CASE!"


End file.
